Guanhao, Grand Line
The air inside the austere marble chamber of Cipher Pol's main training headquarters was thick with tension—an invisible pressure that could crush the spirit of lesser men. Ancient portraits of past CP directors of various divisions lined the walls, their lifeless gazes watching the exchange in solemn silence. A massive World Government insignia loomed behind the director's desk, casting a long shadow across the room.
The current director of CP9, a composed and calculating man with eyes sharp enough to cut glass, stood behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His voice was steady, calm—but laced with subtle condescension and quiet threat.
"Spandam… Your father and I were very close friends. He was an influential man within Cipher Pol—brilliant, ruthless, and loyal to the World Government until the end. Unfortunately, we lost him during the Ohara Incident… a tragedy, but one that earned him a permanent place in the annals of our history."
He paused, letting the silence carry the weight of the name Spandine, a name still spoken in whispers through government halls.
"Your position within CP9, I must remind you, is not something you earned through merit or skill. It was granted out of gratitude—a token of what your father gave the World Government. His legacy bought you this seat."
"So I hope you remember your place. Do not bring shame upon this organization. Is that clear?"
Spandam stood stiffly in front of the director, freshly recruited, barely in his early twenties. There was no sign yet of the disfiguring scar he would one day carry, no leather mask to hide behind. He was clean-shaven, his light brown hair combed neatly, his uniform still crisp from its first wearing. And yet, despite the authority the uniform lent him, he looked… ordinary.
He swallowed hard and nodded, his jaw set but his hands slightly trembling behind his back.
"Yes, sir. Understood."
His eyes, however, told a different story. A flicker of resentment burned behind them—quick, sharp, and carefully hidden. It wasn't loyalty that moved him. It was ambition. Even now, at the beginning of his journey, Spandam dreamed of titles, of power, of rising beyond his father's shadow and etching his own name into the stone walls of Cipher Pol.
But in that moment, he said nothing. Because Spandam was clever enough to know when to stay quiet—and when to scheme. The Director studied him a moment longer before returning to his reports, the dismissal unspoken but understood.
"I've assigned you your first mission," the Director of CP9 said, his tone sharp and deliberate.
"We're on this island to scout future prospects for Cipher Pol Division 9. Rumors are already circulating about a young boy—one even the Aegis Division has taken an interest in."
He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "We need to secure the best candidate before they do. Is that understood, Spandam?"
The Director himself had traveled to Guanhao Island, an unusual move that spoke volumes about the mission's importance. After the death of Spandine, Spandam's father, the influence CP9 once wielded had diminished significantly. The current director hoped that if Spandam was even half the man his father had been, then CP9 might once again reclaim its former glory.
He slid a folder across the polished desk. The seal of the World Government was stamped in red.
"If you can successfully recruit these children into our division, I'll allow you to personally lead them. But understand this—even CP0 has expressed strong interest in one of these children. I had to call in far too many favors just to keep that child on this island until now. The rest is up to you."
Spandam accepted the folder with both hands, bowing slightly. "Worry not, Director. I will flawlessly complete my assignment."
The Director observed him for a long moment, unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned back to his paperwork—a silent dismissal, but no less absolute.
"You may go. The other departments' agents should already be monitoring the prospects at the training grounds. Do not be late."
As Spandam turned and walked out, the heavy doors of the director's office groaned shut behind him, a faint smirk curled at the edge of his lips. He would prove himself—but not in the way they expected. And one day, they would answer to him.
The rain fell in sheets, but the children stood as if sculpted from stone. Drenched uniforms clung to their bodies, their eyes locked forward with unwavering discipline. The morning drill continued in perfect synchrony, thunder rolling overhead—yet none flinched. Years of indoctrination, pain, and relentless training had carved obedience into their very souls.
Spandam arrived at the edge of the training grounds, his government-issued coat barely shielding him from the storm. His eyes scanned the field of prospective agents—children, yes, but far from innocent. Each one of them had already undergone what most would consider torture, shaped into tools of the Cipher Pol.
He wasn't the only one present. Around the grounds, other agents from different divisions had already gathered, their sharp gazes dissecting the candidates, each hoping to claim the best for their respective branches.
"So... see anyone you like?"
A voice behind him snapped him out of his thoughts. Spandam turned—almost flinching—but forced his expression into something neutral. He hadn't sensed the man approach. That in itself was humiliating.
A tall, broad-shouldered agent stood there with a faint smirk playing on his lips. His hair was cropped short, and his coat bore the insignia of Cipher Pol-4. Despite his polite tone, his presence radiated menace.
"My apologies," the man continued smoothly. "I didn't mean to startle you. I'm Edward. May I ask which division you're with?"
Spandam hesitated for a heartbeat before accepting the outstretched hand.
Crack.
Pain exploded up his arm as Edward's grip clamped down like an iron vice. Spandam's face twitched, but he refused to cry out. His hand was nearly crushed—the bones groaned under the pressure. He knew at once: this was a test. Or rather, a lesson. This was how trained Cipher Pol agents greeted the unworthy.
Edward recoiled, feigning mock surprise. "Ah, sorry about that," he said with faux politeness. "Didn't know you were... still recovering."
Spandam offered a forced smile, hiding his now-swollen hand behind his back like a wounded animal.
"No harm done. I know it wasn't deliberate," he lied through gritted teeth.
The other agents nearby exchanged knowing glances but said nothing. No matter how weak Spandam was, he bore the mark of CP9, and that meant politics—not something to trifle with openly.
"So," Edward said again, turning back to the field, "anyone catch your eye yet? I hear there's a monster among the recruits. Even CP0's taken notice."
Spandam's brow twitched. The comment was meant to provoke, to test how far CP9's ambition reached. Everyone knew that unless CP0 made a formal claim, all prospects were fair game. But CP0 rarely, if ever, trained recruits. They only plucked the elite—those who had already proven themselves in blood and silence.
"Rumors," Spandam scoffed. "They're just trying to hype up the batch this year. Who in their right mind believes CP0 is interested in a child barely in his teens?"
He turned back toward the field, hiding the searing anger in his eyes.
"Honestly, I've heard talk that the training division's budget is being slashed. Something about the recent agents not lasting more than a few weeks in the New World. Dropping like flies."
That made the other agents pause. Edward's smirk faded slightly.
The statement wasn't far-fetched. It made sense the more they thought about it. Why else would the Training Division push such outlandish rumors unless they were desperate to show value?
"So… you're saying they're lying to us?" one of the agents asked warily. "That we're being fed subpar candidates to clean up their numbers?"
Spandam shrugged with exaggerated indifference, then smiled thinly. "I'm not saying anything. But if they're bold enough to make such claims, why not verify them yourself?"
He stepped slightly to the side and gestured toward the center of the training field, where one young boy stood alone—just a few paces behind the others.
"I mean, you're all trained agents. Surely, a kid can't be stronger than someone like you… right? Just walk up and test this so-called monster. I'm sure the instructors won't mind..."
His voice remained friendly, but his words were poison dipped in honey. The challenge was subtle, yet deliberate—insulting just enough to poke at their pride. He didn't need to twist the blade. Ego would do the rest.
"Just… try not to kill him," Spandam added, flashing a smile. "That might cause trouble for all of us."
The other agents exchanged glances again. The storm above had quieted for a moment—but something else now hung in the air: tension.
Spandam turned his gaze back to the field, that same faint smirk curling at the edge of his lips. Let the games begin.
"Well, I guess there's no harm in trying…" Edward finally said, a hint of amusement in his voice—but his jaw clenched ever so slightly.
He knew Spandam had goaded him, but walking away now would be an admission of cowardice—especially after he'd crushed the man's hand to assert dominance. No matter how monstrous these trainees were rumored to be, they were still just children barely into their teens. If he couldn't handle one, what right did he have to wear the Cipher Pol coat?
"Do you mind?" Edward asked with a smirk, slipping off his suit jacket and casually tossing it toward Spandam.
Spandam caught it with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Checkmate, he thought. Edward stepped forward, boots splashing into the shallow pools of rainwater collecting across the field. The storm showed no signs of stopping, yet the training yard remained rigid, the hundreds of soaked recruits unmoving, their stances unwavering even as rain beat down on them.
Near the edge of the field, beneath a large canopy fashioned like a blooming steel lotus, sat the training director of Guanhao Island—a towering behemoth of a man, nearly three meters tall, his form like a living statue chiseled from iron.
He was a Cipher Pol veteran, a loyalist who had served through the old eras, selected not only for his brutal efficiency but also for his unparalleled ability to mold young minds into living weapons. The canopy barely shielded his broad shoulders, and he made no move to wipe the rain from his face.
He had been listening. The man's cold eyes tracked Edward's approach with a heavy silence. Though no words had been exchanged, the tension was unmistakable.
"Hello, Director," Edward began, offering a formal nod. "I'm Edward of the CP4 Division. I heard rumors of monsters being groomed this cycle. I'd like to test them for myself, if you don't mind?"
His tone was polite, but there was mockery in the curve of his grin. The director's eyes narrowed. He did not return the smile. For a long moment, there was only the sound of rain drumming against steel and flesh. Then he rose to his full height and spoke, his voice calm but laced with steel.
"Yes. Isn't that why you're here? To evaluate the graduates and select the best for your departments?"
He raised a hand, and the whistle of authority cut through the rain as the instructors called for a halt.
"I will have the Doriki meter brought out for measurement."
The moment the command left his lips, two junior agents sprinted off into the equipment lockers. Yet Edward raised a hand, shaking his head.
"No need," he said, stepping further into the center of the yard. "Those machines only measure raw strength. They can't quantify instinct… or the will to kill."
His grin widened as he turned back to face the director. "Let's skip the numbers. How about you call out one of your better prospects and let me judge them myself. I promise…" He cracked his knuckles. "I'll go easy on them."
The director didn't flinch. But beneath the canopy, his fists clenched. Edward's arrogance grated at him—but he wouldn't give this upstart the satisfaction of a visible reaction.
He turned to one of the instructors, a scarred man with a voice like flint.
"Bring one."
The instructor gave a sharp nod and turned to face the soaked crowd of recruits. All of them stood ready, unmoving despite the storm. Each child here had earned their place through blood, tears, and broken bones. And this year… this year, the average Doriki level had surged past 500—more than double the usual standard. The presence of one particular "monster" had raised the bar for everyone, driving them all to surpass their limits just to keep up.
The instructor's eyes scanned the crowd—then settled on one.
"Jabra. Step forth."
The name rang out through the training ground like a gunshot. From the second row, a boy barely into his early teens stepped forward, rain trailing down his face. Jabra, even young, moved with the subtle grace of a predator. His hair was wild, shaggy, and already framed a face that wore the hardened edge of someone who'd seen things far beyond his years.
His frame was lean but solid, muscles coiled like springs beneath soaked training gear. Unlike the others, his expression held no fear—only a feral gleam in his amber eyes.
He walked into the center ring with a calmness that bordered on unsettling. Even as Edward stood before him, easily twice his size, Jabra didn't look up in awe. He looked forward, as though seeing a piece of meat waiting to be tested.
From the sidelines, the other agents shifted uneasily. Spandam narrowed his eyes. So this is one of them… one of the ones they said CP0 had their eye on…?
Edward raised an eyebrow. "So this is your best, huh?"
The director didn't respond. His gaze was locked on Jabra, watching not the fight—but the measure of control in the boy's breathing, the distance of his steps, the absence of fear.
Edward took a step forward and cracked his neck.
"Alright, kid. You got ten seconds. Show me what you've got."
Jabra didn't answer. He simply crouched. And then he vanished. A flicker in the rain—a blur of movement. Edward barely had time to turn before Jabra was already behind him, a fist flying toward his kidney. Edward twisted, blocking with his elbow—shock jolting up his arm from the force. He staggered back, caught off guard.
"Tch… Fast," Edward muttered, eyes narrowing.
But Jabra didn't give him time to reset. With animal-like precision, the boy lunged again, this time launching a roundhouse kick that forced Edward to duck and roll, splashing water everywhere. From beneath the canopy, the director simply folded his arms.
But Edward was no pushover.
Decades ago, he had trained on this very island, rising through the ranks as one of the most exceptional agents of his generation. He had bled on these same stones, clawed through survival drills designed to break men twice his size. And in the years since—across missions soaked in blood, betrayal, and death—he had only grown stronger, sharper, colder.
So when Jabra's leg whipped toward his face, Edward stopped holding back.
His hand shot up, clamping Jabra's ankle mid-spin with crushing force. The sheer grip strength forced a wince from the boy before Edward twisted and heaved him into the air like a sack of sand. Jabra reacted quickly, twisting midair and lashing out with his other leg—but
Edward had already let go, leaving him vulnerable. Suspended midair, Jabra's back was exposed. Edward's fingers tensed, his nails sharpening with Armament Haki.
"Tobu Shigan!"
His hands blurred—a hailstorm of finger-thrusts so fast they vanished from sight. Dozens of invisible projectiles screamed toward the falling boy like bullets.
"Tekkai!" Jabra roared, muscles locking down, body turning rigid like reinforced steel.
The barrage struck with surgical precision, each Shigan tearing through his training gear, slamming into his back like blunt blades. The raw force sent him flying, the rapid-fire hits turning him into a ragdoll launched across the rain-slicked field. Under the canopy, the Training Director's brow furrowed, watching closely.
"He's tough… but this is no longer a spar. And the opponent is already resorting to haki."
Despite the brutal punishment, Jabra managed to twist midair, slamming into the ground on one knee, his hand clutching his ribs. Blood spilled from his mouth, mixing with the rain pooling around him. Even though Tekkai had mitigated the worst, Edward's Shigan had pierced through, leaving his back bruised and bloodied.
But Edward was already moving again.
"Soru."
He vanished. Jabra's eyes widened a fraction—he could feel the presence behind him. Too fast. Edward reappeared at his six o'clock, already mid-strike, hand poised like a blade ready to pierce the spine. There was no restraint. No sportsmanship. Only lethal intent.
From the sidelines, agents observing the fight murmured with discomfort. This was no evaluation. This was an execution. Even Spandam, far from a warrior himself, felt a chill crawl down his spine.
If I had to face either of them... I'd already be dead.
But what unsettled him more was that Edward hadn't already finished it. Despite the punishing hits, despite the clear gap in experience, the boy was still moving. And Edward knew it too. His face, once smug, was now a mask of steely focus.
"Rankyaku!" he shouted.
A compressed blade of air exploded from his leg, slicing forward with a shriek like steel screaming across stone. Jabra didn't dodge; rather, he couldn't. He braced, crossing his arms in a Tekkai-guard—but it wasn't enough.
The air blade cleaved through, a deep gash tearing across his chest, blood spraying as the force threw him backward, tumbling across the flooded ground like a discarded doll. The rain hissed where it touched the blood.
Still… he didn't stay down.
Groaning, teeth clenched, Jabra pushed himself back to his feet, chest heaving, body trembling—but his eyes were burning with something feral. He wasn't done.
Back under the canopy, the instructors and the director remained silent. Their neutrality wasn't callousness—it was deliberate. Because this wasn't just a show. This was a crucible. They had trained this boy. Hardened him. And now they were watching the result.
"Doriki estimate... 1,500," the instructor beside the director murmured.
"And Edward's is over 4,000," the Director responded, voice like thunder. There was a moment of stillness.
"And yet… he's still standing."
The instructor's voice trembled, barely louder than the falling rain.
"Director… he's already resorted to using Haki. Jabra won't survive much longer—should we intervene? None of the others are trained to handle this…"
His eyes drifted, almost involuntarily, to a lone boy standing in the back—silent, unmoving, yet exuding an eerie stillness amidst the chaos. The Director followed his gaze, and for the first time, a subtle smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"They came here to witness a monster," he said quietly, his voice cutting through the storm.
"Let them see it. I'll deal with the aftermath."
Before his words had fully landed, the boy vanished. No sound. No warning. A single flicker through the downpour.
And then—
"SLAP!"
Just as Edward's Haki-coated fingers were about to pierce through Jabra's exposed throat, the young figure materialized between them, palm snapping upward and slapping the attack aside with ease. The force of the deflection cracked the air. Edward stumbled back in reflex, his feet skidding across the wet stone as his eyes widened.
Pain.
His hand throbbed—even through the Haki armor, it felt like his bones had been jarred. He looked up.The boy was standing there. Unarmed. Barely older than Jabra. Calm. Cold.
"Who—?" Edward muttered, shaken.
Under the canopy, the Director's smile widened as he folded his arms.
"Didn't you want to see the 'monster' for yourself?" he said.
"Well… he's standing in front of you now. For your sake, I hope you don't hold back." Zero—that was his name atleast the one given to him by Cipher Pol—stood motionless, awaiting orders.
One of the instructors rushed in, lifting Jabra's broken form off the ground and retreating to safety. The rest of the trainees were frozen, eyes wide, soaked in rain and disbelief. Then the Director's voice rang out, sharp as a gunshot.
"No quarter."
It was the death knell. The permission to unleash hell. Edward barely had time to react. Zero vanished. One moment he was standing still—and the next, he was inches away. Edward struck on instinct.
"Shigan!"
His fingers launched forward like spears, aimed at Zero's throat. Zero didn't dodge. Instead, he stepped into the blow, taking the full force of the Shigan even as his own palm moved.
CRACK!
Edward's fingers collided—only to feel bone snap. His own bones. Zero's throat had been reinforced—coated with Armament Haki so dense that it shattered Edward's attack hand on impact. Before he could register the pain, Zero's counterstrike had already begun.
What followed was brutality in its purest form.
A flurry of Shigan, blurring fists, bone-crushing speed—everything Edward had done to Jabra, but twice as fast, ten times as cruel. Blood erupted in crimson bursts as Zero's fingers tore through Edward's defense like paper, each strike bypassing Haki with monstrous precision.
Edward tried to scream—but a Shigan pierced his throat, the sound dying in a wet gurgle.
The agents watching turned pale. The downpour masked the blood, but not the horror.
"Stop him!" one whispered, but no one moved.
The Director stood at the edge of the training grounds, arms still folded, eyes like stone.
He was watching them—all of them. Daring them to interfere. And then the final blow came.
"Rokuogan."
Zero didn't speak out the attack's name because he couldn't, but everyone there recognized the attack because it was the pinnacle of the rokushiki techniques' very essence. His fists pressed forward, striking Edward's chest with a concussive force that shattered bone, ruptured organs, and launched his skull backward with such power that it burst open like a melon against the stone wall behind.
Silence.
Only the sound of rain filled the air, hissing as it struck the blood-soaked ground. Edward's body fell in slow motion, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut. The other agents—those from CP2, CP3, CP5—stared in terror. No one would dare approach the monster now. He may be exceptionally strong, but what they saw was not just a monster but a bloodthirsty demon.
He stood there—Zero—his body dripping with blood and rain, expression unreadable. Even the instructors lowered their heads in quiet reverence. But in the back… Spandam was smiling. His eyes gleamed—not with fear, but ambition.
"A weapon…" he whispered to himself. "The perfect weapon." One day, they'd all answer to him. And this boy would be his blade.